


Wick

by CoralFlowerNSFW (CoralFlower)



Series: Abandoned Smut WIP Pile [1]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Begging, Bondage, Consensual Kink, Dirty Talk, Dom Morality | Patton Sanders, Dom/sub, Enthusiastic Consent, Flogging, Fluff and Smut, Insecure Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Morality | Patton Sanders is a Good Dom, POV Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, POV Second Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Rope Bondage, Safeword Use, Smut, Spanking, Sub Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Teasing, sub ties up dom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:55:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22019737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoralFlower/pseuds/CoralFlowerNSFW
Summary: Smut warninganyway this is part of an unconnected series of works from various fandoms where i invert the power dynamics of kinks.“You’re so good for me, Roman,” he says, voice like a house built from bricks of adoration, and you swallow, unsure what to do with the sudden warmth in your chest, welling up like wax at the tip of a birthday candle.
Relationships: Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders/Morality | Patton Sanders
Series: Abandoned Smut WIP Pile [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1584928
Kudos: 31





	Wick

**Author's Note:**

> hi! this is unfinished. i started writing it on february 17th 2019 and its currently december 19th of the same year, so ive been frustrating myself over this for 10 months. lol.
> 
> anyway, enjoy. patton is dom, roman is sub, theyre in love keep scrolling

You don’t know exactly what it is. Something about seeing Patton this way-- tied up in ropes of your colour, ass in the air, lips parted and eyes glazed-- it makes you turn to mush, softens you until all you can think of is him.

_“Tonight?” he had said, on the bed beneath you, one hand on your face. You nodded, not trusting your voice, and he smiled. “You know how it goes?”_

_“Yes,” you whispered. “I do what you say and take care of you, Patton. Please.”_

_“Good boy, Roman,” he said, and you closed your eyes to let a shiver run its course through your body. “Do you know what I want tonight?”_

_You shook your head, holding your breath as he leaned up to whisper in your ear, so close he may as well have touched you,_

_“I want to be bound,” Patton said, voice rich and deep like an ocean of honey. “I want you to tie me up securely-- I’ll guide you through it-- and then I want you to spank me.”_

_You jerked back, eyes opening in shock, because even though he’d asked it of you before, it happens rarely enough to still catch you off guard each time._

_“Okay,” you whispered, voice dipping low and raspy in a poor emulation of Patton’s. “Yes, I’ll do it, I’ll make you feel good.”_

_“I know you will,” Patton said, hand sliding down your chest with excruciating leisure, like he had all the time in the world. “You always do.”_

That’s what happened. The in between is blurry, but delightful all the same; you know he told you exactly how to form each knot even though you already knew, and you know he slipped into that stern tone at some point, the one that makes you obey without question and beg for more orders. You know that the first time you spanked him, he flinched, and rolled his hips, fingers clenching into fists behind his back as he gasped out your name. You know he’s beautiful, eyes sharp like he’s standing over you, like he isn’t tied up and helpless beneath you. Those eyes have you captured, just like they always do, just like he always does.

“Again,” Patton murmurs, and his voice sends tremours through your stomach like it’s made of quicksand. Your role in this scene is to obey, so that is what you do, drawing your hand back and then forwards sharply, and the resulting _smack_ feels like a breath against your face. Patton groans, eyes slipping shut, and licks his lips, hips stuttering back just a tad. Half a moment later, he speaks again, eyes still shut, no longer pinning you with his gaze, and his voice is a command, as rigid and demanding as you imagine yourself to sound in daydreams, leading an army against the dragon witch. “Again.”

His thighs are pink, and that’s all you can notice now that he’s released you from that eye contact. When you spank him again, the pink flashes white for a moment before flooding back in.

“Again,” he says immediately, so you do it again, and when he shifts his hips frustratedly and bucks them backwards like he’ll meet your hand by doing so, you swallow. It’s like-- like you’re not-- “It’s not enough,” Patton says, slightly out of breath. “Hit me harder, Roman. Come on. You can do better than this.”

Oh.

“Sorry,” you say, feeling like he’s pulled the floor out from under you, like something in your chest has dropped all the way into the basement. “Sorry, Patton, I’m-- I’m trying--”

“It’s alright,” Patton says. “You’re doing very well, love, okay?”

You sniffle, wondering when exactly these tears snuck into your eyes and how they got there.

“I--”

“Say it, Roman. You’re doing well, and you’re so, so good for me.”

Oh, fuck. Your mind goes blank, everything pausing as you process the request-- no, the order. Every damn time he does this, you react this way, but it’s difficult not to. This is one of the hardest things he ever asks for from you. It's uncomfortable, to confront the praise so blatantly, to repeat it as though it's fact.

“I’m doing well,” you manage to choke out. Because-- he _said_ it wasn’t hard enough, said you could do better, so it feels like lying. “I’m...”

“You’re being so good for me, love,” Patton cuts in gently, and you take a deep breath.

“I’m being good,” you mutter, without putting much feeling into it.

“Of course you are,” Patton says. “You always do. You make it feel so good, Roman, so much that I forget how to wait for more. I get so selfish because of you.”

His thighs and ass are pink and pretty, and his voice is smooth, reassuring.

“I’ll be better,” you say, and it sounds like a plea, like you're begging to be allowed a chance. “I can hit harder, I can--”

“You can get the flogger out of the closet, darling,” Patton says, and the words alone are simply a reminder, but become a command when coupled with his voice. You breathe in so sharply that you almost choke, and nod, scrambling off the bed in your hurry to obey even as your mind scrambles to come to terms with it.

The flogger. Yes. You have used it during a scene only once, because usually your hand is enough (you are enough) to satisfy Patton, and he doesn’t often want this manner of satisfaction anyway. It’s red (like the rope), and leaves a different kind of mark, leaves _bruises_ (your hand did at first, but you’ve gotten the hang of only using enough force to sting because usually Patton prefers to be able to sit down the next day), and makes Patton completely lose it, so he ends up moaning rather pathetically, like he’s _you_. Last time you used it, he drooled, reduced to using hand signals to ask for more, and it took him quite a while to surface again once you got spooked by the illusion of power, of being the only one responsible for being responsible. He looked completely out of it (he _was_ completely out of it) at the time, so you still think you were right, that the state it put him in was too much like him being submissive for you to be comfortable with.

“I’m nervous to use this,” you murmur, clutching the flogger in your hands.

“Well, you don’t have to use it,” Patton says. “What are you nervous about?”

You take a deep breath to try and steady yourself.

“To hurt you,” you say. “And... last time...”

“I lost track of myself last time,” Patton says into the silence. “I know that made you feel icky, and I'm not gonna let it happen again. Actually, I chose tonight to try again since I’m more on top of things right now. It’s a good time for me. Is it for you?”

You blink, and bite your lip, trying to decide how to answer that question.

“I don’t know,” you say. “I don’t want-- Patton, I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I know,” Patton says. “You know, Roman. This can be dangerous, but only if you don’t know what you are doing, and you do. You've practiced this. You know what you have to focus on. If, at some point, you can’t focus so well anymore, or anything else makes you think you can't do it safely anymore, we'll stop. But Roman, I know you can do this.”

You take a deep breath; that was the reassurance you were looking for. You set the flogger on the corner of the bed because, in just a moment, Patton will tell you you to move him to the edge of the bed so you can stand as you hit him.

“Alright,” you say. “I do want to try. I want-- I want to make you feel what you want to feel.”

The words are a tight fit in your throat as you push them out, and Patton smiles at you, sweet as ever.

“You’re so good for me, Roman,” he says, voice like a house built from bricks of adoration, and you swallow, unsure what to do with the sudden warmth in your chest, welling up like wax at the tip of a birthday candle. “You should move me now, love.”

You nod, silent, and lean over to drag him sideways across the bed, towards you, almost losing your grip when he groans, sounding deeply satisfied.

“I like that so much,” Patton says, eyes lit up like fireflies in a darkening meadow at twilight. “The way you-- god, the way you do everything I ask... The way I can’t move, except I can, because I can tell you to move me and you’ll do it... You’re so strong.”

You shudder, and pick up the flogger again, staring at it with such apprehension that you forget to answer him. It looks so menacing in your hands.

“Are you ready?” Patton asks, voice gentle, and your eyes leave the may-as-well-be-a-weapon in your hands with a jolt. You shake your head. “Take your time, love. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Remind me I can do it?” you say, voice pleading, because you need this, you _need_ to know you can be good for him before you can even try.

“You can do this, Roman,” Patton says, and your breath hitches. You’re floored by the honesty in his voice, by how frankly he forms the words. “You know exactly what can go wrong and how to keep that from happening. And you don’t just know it with your head, love, remember? When you practiced on the pillow and figured out exactly how to hold the handle to keep the most control? And how you perfected your aim far past the point when I was satisfied? You know it with your hands, too, Roman. Your skill with that thing is just incredible, okay? And on top of that, you’re always careful. You aren't gonna hurt me.”

“Oh,” you say, jaw slack. He’s right. You practiced obsessively once you knew the potential dangers (the worst one is wrapping, which is when the aim is off and the tails of the flogger don’t hit the intended area but instead wrap around a body part to strike somewhere else). “I-- thank you.”

“It’s no problem,” Patton says. “Are you ready to begin?”

“Um, not yet,” you say, because you’re still shaky. “Just-- gotta breathe.”

You shut your eyes, and take deep breaths, reminding yourself, whenever the panic threatens to surge back over you, that you can do this, and keep Patton safe, keep from hurting him. You don’t know how long it takes, because you don’t pay attention, because paying attention will only make you feel like you’re wasting time no matter how little you take.

“Okay, I’m ready,” you say, opening your eyes, and Patton smiles.

“You’ve got this,” he says. “Kiss me.”

He’s putting it off, but you aren’t complaining; you like kissing him. He scrapes his teeth across your lower lip without waiting to let you settle into the kiss first, and you jerk back, caught off guard. He’s watching you with amusement and lust in his eyes.

“Now touch me,” he says. “Feel the place you’re going to hit me, feel how soft it is, the heat you’ve drawn into the area with your preparation. Feel the way it makes me-- yes--” he hips shift as you put a hand on his ass-- “squirm, fuck, I’m so sensitive there, I swear I can feel you in my whole body.”

“Oh,” you say, reduced to single syllables as he smirks at you.

“Go on, feel,” he says, and you slide your hand slowly across his ass. His skin is warm. It is soft and smooth like the screen of a phone when it’s been charging or had the sun shining on it for a while. It almost feels like glass, like he’s fragile. He keeps squirming. “So sensitive... It’s going to hurt so much when you flog me, Roman. I can’t wait to feel it.”

It feels like there is lightning in your fingertips, flowing from Patton’s skin and surging with each word that leaves his mouth.

“I can’t wait to make you feel it,” you say, transfixed by the way his hips shift and a little concerned that he can move even this much; it’ll make aiming trickier. “I-- you need to-- you shouldn’t be able to move this much.”

“Hold me still,” Patton says, wriggling even more now, and you swallow, unsure how to go about doing that.

“I-- that-- it won’t work with the angle I need. I can-- I think if I, um, pull some things tighter, that’ll fix it.”

[AN: the following paragraph doesn't make as much sense as I want it to, so don't worry about it too much. It's whatever.]

“Do that, then,” Patton says, and you set the flogger back down and set to work on the rope, removing some of the slack from the section holding his hands behind his back because that section feeds directly into the part that keeps his thighs from unbending further than a certain amount away from his chest. There’s nothing to keep him from pulling them closer, though, so you take a pillow from the top of the bed and put it under his ankles, which makes his knees bend more. You think they’re probably a little stiff by now, and you know you guessed right when Patton shifts forwards reflexively, so his knees unbend back to the original angle and his hips unbend as far as they can anymore with the rope tightened. He groans, feeling the tautness of the rope, and you make a mental note to check in after a few moments and make sure it isn’t cutting off his circulation.

“Can you still move?” you ask, and Patton’s voice is husky when he replies.

“Probably, but I don’t want to try,” he says. “Oh, this feels nice. The way it-- but that was probably the point, wasn’t it. You’re so smart with all this rope stuff, I don’t know how you keep track of it all.”

“Practice,” you say. “We’ve done this tie a lot.”

“I guess we have,” Patton murmurs. “Is everything okay now?”

You pick the flogger back up, and narrow your eyes at Patton’s body, sizing up the distance between him and the edge of the mattress to make sure it’s correct.

“Yes,” you say. “I think so.”

“Do it, then,” Patton says, shutting his eyes and tensing in anticipation. You don’t know if it’s on purpose, but it’s not what you prefer.

“Uh-- I--”

“What is it?” Patton interrupts, not kindly, actually sounding a little impatient, and your heart jumps uneasily into your throat even though you know it’s all pretend, and he’s the most understanding person in the world.

“You-- you should relax, please don’t be mad at me I just want-- want it to feel good, want--”

“Oh,” Patton says, sounding-- you don’t know how he sounds. It makes you nervous. “I’m sorry about that just now. I’m mostly used to the specific way you like me to be in charge, but some parts are still-- I just mean I acted stern because I forgot for a moment that you, um, that it doesn’t do it for you. You didn’t mess up or anything, I’m not mad, I only talked like I was because I went on autopilot for a second and forgot you wouldn’t like it. It was me trying to do something you’d like, not me expressing a feeling I actually had.”

“Okay,” you say, breathing a sigh of relief, glad you didn’t mess up. “I-- yes. You need to relax. Relax your thighs.”

“Right,” Patton says. You watch him relax, taking a deep breath and letting the tension slide out of him. “Good job speaking up, love.”

“Promise you’re not mad?”

“Not even a little bit,” Patton says, and you relax the rest of the way. “I don’t handle anger that way, I don’t let it out through the scene. If I got angry, I’d pause this whole thing and work it out with you. Alright?”

“Yes,” you say, because you know that’s true. It’s happened before.

“Do you need anything else from me?”

“No,” you say. “Just stay relaxed. Um-- should I go ahead now?”

“Yes,” Patton says. “Assuming you feel ready.”

“I do,” you say, dilly-dallying for reasons you aren’t certain of.

“Then do it,” Patton says, after a few seconds of inactivity from you. “I’m going to count down from five in my head, Roman. You need to begin by the time I reach one, do you understand?”

“Yes,” you say, actually preparing to do it now, arranging your feet into the least awkward stance and firming up your grip on the handle. It’s much easier to do these things when Patton takes charge. When he _makes_ you.

“I’m going to begin counting now,” Patton says, and you allow yourself one more deep breath before taking the first swing.

It hits precisely where you meant it to, leaving an irregular red mark on his left cheek, and if not for Patton’s reaction, the perfect execution would make the entire thing pretty anticlimactic after all your worrying. But Patton-- oh, Patton-- he groans, pushing out an entire lungful of air in about three seconds as his toes curl and his hands clench into fists behind his back.

“ _Yes_ ,” he says, voice low and dark, heavy with need. “Roman, I can’t even describe to you how good that was. Mm. Touch-- touch me again, touch the--” his breath hitches when you do it, and he goes silent.

“Like this?” you ask, and he groans softly, in the back of his throat.

“Perfect,” he says. “Again. Now.”

Your hands shake, and you squeeze your eyes shut to take deep breaths. You can’t trust your aim when your hands are shaking. 

“Roman,” Patton says, and you shake your head even though he’s facing away from you. “Love--”

“Wait,” you say. It comes out as a plea.

“Breathe,” Patton says, and you obey, sucking in a stuttery breath like you had forgotten to do it before. “It’s alright, Roman. Do you need to stop?”

“My hands are shaking,” you say, shame in your voice. You shouldn’t still be nervous. “I’m--”

“You’re okay,” Patton says. “Whatever happens, it’s okay. Breathe.”

You breathe. In and out. It’s okay. You’re okay. You know what you’re doing.

“Relax your grip,” Patton says, and you force your fingers to let go a little, to stop holding on so tight. “Good.”

A shudder runs through you, and you remember the rope. You reach out to touch it, to run your fingers over the knots at the top of Patton’s inner thighs, and he makes a quiet sound, pushing back against your hand. It’s beautiful.

“Do these feel okay?” you ask him. “Have they cut off your circulation at all?”

Patton lets out a vaguely annoyed groan, and squirms, testing the rope.

“Not much,” he says. “My wrists... um. My pinkies are sorta tingley.”

“I’ll fix that,” you tell Patton, and he lets out a dreamy sigh, settling back down.

“I know you will,” he says. “I love you, Roman.”

Oh! You smile. Your hands aren’t shaking anymore.

“I love you too,” you say. You study the rope near his wrists and realise that, even though the parts that actually wrap around his wrists are tied in such a way that they can’t get tighter, your earlier adjustment pulled on that rope. It’s not any tighter, but it’s digging into different places now when he pulls. You adjust Patton’s hands, turning them so that he no longer has enough leverage to pull on the rope, and he groans, loud and surprised.

“What?” you say, and he’s breathing heavily, fingers twitching in your hands. You let go, and he turns his wrists back to how they were before so that he can struggle against the rope and reach for you.

“Wow,” he says, as you fix his wrists again and take his hand this time instead of letting go. “Wow, I just-- it’s not even a huge difference, you just, um, I feel a lot more... helpless, now,” he says. “Should I keep my hands turned like this?”

“Um, probably,” you say. “Helpless-- is that a good thing?”

“It caught me off guard,” Patton says. “But don’t you worry, I’m still in charge here.”

Your shoulders relax at that pronouncement. You hadn’t even noticed them tensing.

“Okay,” you say. “Good.”

“Mm,” Patton says. “Are you ready to hit me again?”

“Yes,” you say. Your hands are steadier now; fixing the rope, doing something you know you’re good at, has helped you feel more competent. And you know you can do this for him. You know you can give him everything he asks for.

“Hit me,” Patton says. You pick the flogger back up, and take one last deep breath before you do as he says.

He flinches, and the sound he makes is higher pitched than before. His cock is hard, dripping onto the sheets, and it’s a lovely sight. You’re doing that. He’s hard because of you, because you’re so good for him. Your cheeks flush at the thought.

“That’s so good,” Patton says. “Ahh, it hurts. Again.”

“Okay,” you mumble this time. You hit him with the flogger, and watch as it makes his back arch and his fists clench. He whimpers.

“ _Yes_ ,” he says, thighs trembling the way they do when he tries to spread them even though they’re tied. “Yes, yes, that’s perfect. T-touch me.”

His voice breaks. You reach out with your free hand to touch him, a little bit dazed, and he chokes on his own saliva as your fingers drag across his skin.

“Hit me,” he says. “Do it now, Roman, I need--” you pull your hand out of the way and hit him, and then you wince at the sound of the impact, because it was louder this time. Patton makes a noise that sounds like a sob.

“Was that--”

“You’re so good,” he says, and you let your mouth fall open. “So obedient, Roman, baby. _Baby_. You’re perfect.”

“No,” you say automatically, shaking your head, and Patton sighs. “I’m--”

“You’re perfect enough,” he says, and that silences you. “Good boy, my caring prince, I love you so much.”

“I love you,” you say. “Should I--”

“Yes, again,” he says, and it sounds pleading, like he’s begging you. You swallow. You don’t really like that, and Patton must know it, because he repeats himself, “Again,” and this time he’s just commanding. You hear yourself make a soft sound, and then you hit him again, and he’s groaning, and everything is good. He’s beautiful.

“Are you hard?” Patton asks, and you breathe in sharply, sort of mortified by the question. Yes, you’re hard, of course you are.

“Y-yes,” you say, covering your face with your free hand even though he’s not even facing you.

“Yeah? Tell me about that, sweetheart.”

His voice is almost sly now, and you drop the flogger on the bed to cover your face with both hands and say,

“I-- Patton, it aches, I want-- wanna touch it. I’m so hard.”

“Why are you so hard, cutie pie?” Patton asks, and you close your eyes, because you know if he wasn’t tied up, he’d ask that while stroking you slowly, raising a taunting eyebrow, just the right amount of degrading.

“It’s you,” you mumble into your hands. “All you, the way you talk to me and the way you look, and the sounds you make when I hit you. I-- I’m losing it, Patton, I want you to touch me.”

“I want to touch you,” Patton says, and you squeak in surprise, opening your fingers to peek through them. He looks so good, so tempting. “I want to sit you down and spread your legs and tease you until you’re begging for me, baby.”

“Yes,” you say, and Patton keeps talking.

“Would you beg for me, Roman? Would you beg like a good boy?”

“ _Yes_ ,” you say, feeling too-warm. “Of course I would, I’d-- please, Patton, please touch me, I need--”

“Hit me again,” he says, and you scramble, grabbing the flogger off the bed and rushing through a deep breath.

“O-okay, just a moment,” you say. When you hit him, he flinches, and lets out a strangled whimper that sounds like it might have been your name.

“Fuck, that’s good,” he says, and there’s a hint of desperation in his voice that puts you on edge. “Again.”

You hit him again, because he told you to, but he’s making sounds now that don’t seem right, the kind of sounds that mean he’s losing track of the scene.

“That feels-- fuck, feels so good, do it again, Roman.”

You hesitate, and he wriggles his hips impatiently.

“Now.”

You hit him again, but you don’t put much force behind it, and he sighs, frustrated. You realise he must be crying. You didn’t count how many because he did not ask you to, but you think he should be done. You think you’re beginning to see the signs that mean he’s exhausted himself and hasn’t noticed.

“No more,” you say softly, before he can ask for another, and he jolts, breath catching in his throat in a sort of hiccupy sob. 

“I didn’t say you could stop,” he says, using that voice, oh fuck, his voice, what were you thinking-- you were thinking that you should be done for the night now, that he’s almost pushed past his own limits.

“Bridge,” you say, walking over towards the head of the bed, so you can see his face. Patton breathes in sharply, shuddering all over, and then he’s blinking like he’s snapped out of a daze-- and in a sense, he has. Which is why the safeword is necessary. It cuts through everything else and says _no more, that’s enough for now, it’s time to stop_ without any ambiguity. “You’re crying, Patton, no more.”

Patton blinks, and tears spill out of his eyes. He jerks, and then frowns like he forgot he was tied up. Like he tried to move, expecting to be able to.

“Could you--”

He bites his lip and stops, wiggling his fingers the way he does when he can't remember a word. 

“Yeah, I’ll get it,” you say, leaning over him to pull out the slipknot at the back of his neck and then carefully reintroduce slack into the knots, helping him pull his arms straight from where they’re tied behind him. “Careful, Pat. Don’t move too fast.”

“Thanks, love,” he murmurs, turning over onto his back to stare at you through drowsy eyes, cock still hard and leaking against his stomach. He didn’t come.

“How do you feel?”

“Good,” Patton says, smothering a yawn to keep staring you down with those gorgeous brown eyes of his. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” you say, smiling at him affectionately. “I used the word for you, Pat, since you were getting overwhelmed.”

Patton smiles, and it feels warm in your chest like treasure.

“I can continue,” he says, and you raise your eyebrows dubiously. “I want to continue. Less intensely, of course. No rope, no spanking, just you and me. In love.”

Ah. For a moment, it seemed like he was trying to insist that he was just fine.

“If you’re sure,” you say, setting aside the length of rope that you used for his upper body and then brushing a strand of hair out of his face.

“Yes,” Patton says simply, looking you up and down and making you suddenly more aware of the fact that you’re both completely naked. “You know what I’m thinking about?”

“What?”

Patton licks his lips as you set to work undoing the rope around his legs.

“The time-- a few months ago-- when you were in those blue pajamas and I kissed you against the wall until you were whimpering for me, remember?”

“Yes,” you say, distracted from the task of untying the knots. Your fingers won’t work steadily.

“I’m thinking about the look on your face,” Patton says, “when I knelt down and took you into my mouth, and the way you looked like you would drop to your knees and beg to return the favour when I licked your come off my lips with your cock still resting against my cheek and pulsing with your heartbeat...”

“Fuck,” you mutter, unwinding a loop from around Patton’s ankle. You remember that moment, when you finally gave in and looked him in the eye. Your come was dripping down his face and out of his mouth a little bit, and he held eye contact as his tongue danced around the corners of his mouth, so thorough.

“You were so cute,” Patton says. “I remember you squirmed when I slid your pajama pants down, like you were trying not to buck your hips. You could’ve fucked my throat, I would’ve let you.”

You have no idea how to respond, so you choose the most inelegant option you can think of.

“Masochist,” you mutter fondly, because with Patton, you _know_ that’s what it is. You know him. “You would’ve liked it.”

“Well, of course,” Patton says, sounding excited for some reason. “It was nice anyway, though. Especially when you maso-kissed me.”

You stare at him for a moment, at the gleaming grin on his face, and shake your head.

“You’re a mess.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault I’m a mess-ochist--”

You snort, and Patton looks delighted.

“You’re lucky you’re so fucking adorable,” you mutter. “You absolute living disaster area.”

“That’s dis- _master_ area to you,” Patton says, and you groan, unwilling to accept the encroachment of puns on the sexy times despite all prior evidence indicating that it’ll happen no matter what you do.

“Please take this seriously,” you say. “I’ve never even called you master--”

“Maybe you should,” Patton says, with an enthusiastic wiggling of his eyebrows, and you roll your eyes.

“If you didn’t just get done being tied up, I would shove you,” you inform him. “I think I’d die of cringe if I even called you that as a joke.”

“Why?” Patton asks, suddenly serious in a way that sends subtle prickles down your spine, a way that’s adjacent to his dom voice without quite being the same thing.

“It’s so BDSM cliche,” you say. “Fifty shades of nay, am I right? It’s dumb.”

Patton is pouting, you notice with horror. Both at the pouting and the fact that it actually sort of seems like he might want you to call him something different. Both are horrifying, but only the second makes disgust roil in your stomach like seawater during a storm.

“It’s not that bad,” he tries to protest, but you shake your head, unwilling to budge, because honestly? Fuck no.

“I would be completely unable to take it seriously anymore,” you say.

Patton mumbles something that sounds like _sir-iously_.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he says innocently. “I just think-- you already do what I say, why not make it official? Only during scenes, obviously--”

You narrow your eyes, hands itching to shove him, not really certain where the irritation in your stomach is coming from but annoyed all the same.

“Don’t be a douchebag,” you say, and your voice sounds too-angry even to your ears.

“What do you mean?” Patton asks. “I--”

“I am not a piece of meat for your consumption,” you say, feeling self conscious as soon as you get done saying it, because no matter how hard you try, you can never keep the melodrama out of your voice, and it makes you sound slightly ridiculous even when you’re striving for sincerity.

“I wasn’t saying that,” Patton says. “It was a joke, I don’t think of you that way--”

“It wasn’t funny,” you say, and this time your voice is just cold. Fuck. _Wrong end of the emotional spectrum there, Roman, well fucking done_ , you think viciously to yourself. _Your name should be Robot instead_.

“I’m sorry,” Patton says, and he just sounds miserable now, confused. You swallow.

“Whatever,” you say. “I-- I just-- I’m not going to call you that. I’m not going to call you anything like it. If I’m being honest... I think it might be a trigger for me. Sorry for being mean about it.”

“Oh,” Patton says, like he understands now, like he thinks he gets it, and you tear another surge of annoyance to shreds by reminding yourself he just cares about you and you don’t mind him knowing your secrets. “I won’t-- we can drop it. I know that you-- you didn’t react to hurt me. You didn’t, right?”

You turn to look at him again, and there are tears welling up in his eyes.

“I didn’t,” you say. He tries for a smile, but it’s weak and fake-looking. “Patton--”

“I just-- it really hurt, that you-- to be called-- to be misinterpreted that way. I know you weren’t thinking clearly, but--”

“Patton, I’m so, so--”

“Let me finish!” Patton says, voice climbing higher. He sounds a little bit hysterical now. “Please don’t interrupt me.”

You open your mouth, and then shut it, and nod instead.

“I’m sorry for snapping at you,” Patton says, staring up at the ceiling with his face shaped into a glare. He is silent for a while, long enough for it to hit you that Patton has literally never responded even neutrally to being interrupted, let alone well. Maybe it’s just a Thing for him, like your Thing about That Word. “I-- it didn’t feel good, Roman. I care about you a lot and it was scary, how everything I said just got twisted in the exact right way to give you an excuse to feel worse, I hate-- I hate that sort of thing. When people do that... Please-- I know you can’t always decide how you react to a trigger, but please do not do that to me. If you need me to just give you space, you can say that, or-- or put your hand over my mouth and look at me distressedly, if you just need me to stop talking. Please try, if I stumble across a new trigger again.”

You’re already nodding, opening your mouth to respond.

“I’m not done,” Patton says, sitting up slowly and carefully to face you. “I love you, Roman. I love everything I do with you, for you, to you, beside you, all of it. You deserve to be seen as a person, not-- not an object. Even if we’re just facets. I feel like a person. I think you are too, and I just love you so much... whatever it is that made you feel like you’re just something to show off... like you’re only around to make Thomas look accomplished... you’re so much more than that, Roman. If you ever need reassurance about that, you can come to me, and I’ll tell you how much you mean to all of us. And if you ever want to talk about why you’re triggered by, um... by being asked to call--”

“That’s not-- sorry, go on.”

“Well, anyway... if you want to talk about it, I’m here. That’s all.”

“I love you so much,” you say. “I’m really sorry for doing, um, the thing. You’re right, I wasn’t thinking clearly, but that’s just an excuse. I-- if it happens again, I’ll try to just leave the room until I calm down, or something. And it’s not about calling you-- um-- it’s just the word. Any variations. Mastery, specifically, because it’s such a ridiculous concept! Like it was created specifically to taunt me with my own inescapable flaws, because I’ll never truly master anything. And it’s like everyone was so obsessed with it for so long, especially Logic, I couldn’t even tell you how many times he’s asked me if I’ve mastered something yet in that one unbearable tone of voice--”

“Roman,” Patton says, and you take a deep breath.

“I was ranting again,” you say. “I’m sorry. But... that’s why. It’s that word, or anything similar sounding.”

“So when you said similar, you meant variations of the word, not like, different things to call me?”

You bite your lip and look at him warily.

“What are you hoping for?” you ask.

“You can say no,” he says, voice shaky, like he’s scared you’ll blow up again. “Um-- I just think it could be hot, but only if you want to, otherwise it’d just be weird and awkward, like you said--”

You want to cut in with a reassurance, but instead you just reach out and put a hand on his shoulder. He pauses, takes a deep breath, and says,

“Sir?”

It rhymes with the last syllable of master. But-- but the last syllable of master isn’t stressed, so it’s not really that similar, and you can imagine shaping your mouth around it and applying it to Patton without wanting to throw up. Actually, you have a very different response to imagining that.

“Mm,” you say, contemplatively. “Would you want to be called that exclusively, or would I be allowed to alternate a bit?”

“Which would you prefer?” Patton asks anxiously, and you sigh, scooting up the bed to lay down beside him and say,

“I believe I was asking you that question, _sir_.”

Patton turns sharply to face you, winces, puts a hand to his waist to rub at the spot that hurts, and says, eyes as powerful as always,

“I think I would want to be called that every single moment, except maybe if you feel the urge to scream my name when I make you come.”

_When_. Yes, he’s done it before, but the confidence is still hot. So is the abrupt shift in demeanor.

“Yessir,” you say, already losing your breath, and the way it doubles the heat in Patton’s eyes is intimidating and hot at the same time.

“I like that even more than I thought I would,” Patton says. “Any chance I could convince you to tie me back up again?”

“You need only order it,” you say, and Patton rolls his eyes.

“No, I’m serious,” he says. “Would you be okay with it?”

You make a face.

“I don’t know,” you say, trying to refuse without saying no. “You’re still stiff, aren’t you?”

“I don’t need to be immobilised,” Patton says. “I want-- the red rope is soft. Which is good, I mean, it feels nice on my skin, but... I just think... I have scratchier rope, and I want to try it out. See if it hurts enough?”

“Later,” you say, shaking your head, and then you add, “maybe.”

“Alright,” Patton says. “Come here.”

You lean towards him, ready for a kiss, but he presses you down onto the bed instead.

“Oh,” you say, as he touches your face, tracing lightly over your lips. Your tongue pokes out to meet his fingers and he smiles.

“You’re so cute,” he says, and you feel your face flushing as your cock, still half-hard, begins to take interest again. “Spread your legs for me, darling.”

“Okay,” you mumble, opening your legs and hunching your shoulders self-consciously. And then you remember-- “I mean, yes sir.”

Patton hums, pleased, as he looks down at you, and when you start to close your legs without thinking (because he’s looking at you and everything is so embarrassing), he puts his hand on your stomach and says,

“Can you keep them open for me?”

You can’t speak for a moment. His hand is so close to your cock, and it’s so warm, and he’s just looking at you. Your cock twitches, and that makes him smirk.

“I can try, sir,” you say, and your voice is breathy. “I-I just, I get shy, and then they try to close-- _oh_ ,”

He has leaned down, taking his hand off your stomach. He has leaned down, pushing your legs apart oh-so-gently with a hand at each knee, and he is kissing your inner thighs now. It makes your stomach flutter, and you squirm, trying to wriggle away from him, but his grip on your knees is just firm enough to hold you in place.

“Patton,” you gasp, “sir, it-- it tickles.”

“Poor thing,” he murmurs, and his breath warms your skin and gives you goosebumps. You whimper. “I’m just showing you how much I appreciate your thighs, love. There’s no need to be shy, they’re pretty.”

You cover your face, and say,

“Now I’m even more shy, sir, _please_.”

“What are you asking for?”

“Stop embarrassing me,” you mumble, and Patton hums sympathetically.

“Stop embarrassing you?”

“Stop embarrassing me, sir,” you correct yourself, and Patton-- you gasp, because he nips at your inner thigh. He looks very pleased with himself, and you’re certain your face is bright red by now. “Please.”

“But you look so pretty when you blush,” Patton says. “You’re so pink, baby. Don’t you want marks on your thighs?”

You breathe in and hold it for a moment, because you do want that, it's just so embarrassing to be held by the knees and played with like a toy-- but that's the point, isn't it, that you're his and he can do what he wants. Still, though; you don't like feeling humiliated and small.

"Patton, Patton wait, I--" your breath catches, and the playful look starts to disappear from Patton's face. "I just-- I don't like-- it doesn't--"

You cut yourself off and just pout, uncertain how to put the words together, and Patton nods, letting go of your knee to take your hand instead.

"It's okay, dear. Roman, it's okay. Was it the way I was talking to you?"

You nod.

"I don't want to feel embarrassed right now," you whisper, and Patton nods, squeezing your hand.

"Oh, of course, Ro, I'll speak differently, okay? Was anything else feeling wrong?"

You squeeze back and smile in relief, shaking your head.

"No, everything else is..." you lick your lips. "Perfect, sir."

Patton smirks.

"Perfect just like you, you mean," he says, and you squirm, but then-- "I'm not teasing," he says. "I really do think you look perfect."

And that makes you feel warm all over too, but in a different way.

"Oh," you whisper.

"Really," he says. "You're always so sweet for me, Roman. I want to make you feel so, so good. So if I offer you something you want, just accept it, no shame. Okay? Can you do that for me?"

You nod, breathing in shakily, because for some reason the genuine stuff is harder to get used to. But Patton is good at this. He knows how to make you settle into it and let go. He knows how to help you be vulnerable without panicking.

"Yes sir."

"Good boy," Patton says softly, and you gasp. He's leaving you feeling like you're on the edge of a cliff. Your lungs feel full and tight even while you exhale. He knows how to make you sink into it, so why isn't he doing it? "Do you want me to mark up your thighs, love?"

Oh. There it is. You breathe out a sigh as you start to descend deeper into subspace, and nod, holding his hand tight.

"Yes please?" you say. "Sir."

Your breath is short and anxious, needy. His hands are warm as he spreads your legs again, and you let out a soft groan, looking away from him, up at the ceiling.

"So pretty, Roman," he says. You make a quiet sound and squirm, and his grip on your thighs gets more firm. You stop wiggling. "Good."

"Thank you, sir," you say, covering your face with your hands. "I--"

You cut yourself off with a gasp as Patton presses an open-mouthed kiss to a sensitive area on your inner thigh.

"Do you feel good, baby?" he asks, and you nod.

"Mm, yes sir, feels-- ah--"

Patton puts his mouth back on the spot and nibbles. You squirm reflexively, and he bites down gently. Your thighs are very sensitive, so it stings anyway. You whimper.

"Fuck," you say. "Nh-- Patton--"

He soothes the spot with his tongue, holding you in place when your legs kick ineffectually at the mattress.

"Gorgeous," he says, and you feel his breath on your skin.

" _Please_ ," you say. Patton nips you again, and you jolt, covering your mouth to try and hold back the embarrassing sound you make. It doesn't work.

"What are you begging for, sweetheart?"

His voice is almost aloof, and that makes you feel like there's a void in your chest, gaping like a mouth.

"Please-- don't tease me, Patton, I need more."

"I think you just need more patience, Roman," he says, and you let out a frustrated whine and kick at the bed again.

" _Patton_."

He switches to your other thigh, a little farther up your leg, a little closer to your cock, and heat rushes through you and then drains away almost entirely, leaving you flushed and desperate. The first spot tingles, and the breeze from the ceiling fan makes it feel chilly.

"Patton _please_ , I'm dying."

"Don't worry, love," he says, lips still near enough to your skin to brush against it as he speaks. "You asked for marks, I'm giving you marks. Remember what you're supposed to call me, baby."

Patton puts his mouth back on your skin and your breath hitches.

"Sir," you mumble, and this time he responds immediately.

"Yes, love?"

"You-- you can skip the marks, sir," you say, and Patton chuckles.

"I'd rather not," he says. "You asked me for them, dear. I want to give you everything."

You sigh, and relax into the mattress, submitting to his words now that he's framed it in terms of what he wants and not just what you asked for. If he wants to take his time on your thighs, he can do that.

"Yessir," you mumble. "Mm. You've got warm hands."

"Oh?" he says against your skin, moving a little to the side. "Tell me about that."

"Warm," you say, shrugging. "And strong. Feels good, I like it when you hold me open."

Patton breathes out as he pushes your thighs open wider, and you arch your back, reaching for him desperately.

"Put your hands in my hair," he says, so you do that. "Good boy. Don't pull."

"Okay?" you say, a little confused, and then he bites you again, and you understand when your hands try to clench into fists. Not pulling is going to be difficult. "How many marks--"

"Well, two isn't really enough," Patton muses, and you whimper without meaning to at the prospect of waiting even longer. "But I can always add more in the morning. Make your thighs even prettier, how about that?"

"Yes," you agree simply. "Yes, oh, Patton, please? Sir?"

It's hard to use anything other than his name, but you're trying.

"You sound so good when you're begging," Patton says. "I want to hear more of it."

Your hands tighten in his hair, and you groan helplessly, arching your back.

"Mm, please. I need-- need your mouth, Pat- sir. Sir, please."

"Pretty," he murmurs, and you peer down at him to see him watching you, eyes like fire. Your breath catches. He bites his lip. "My perfect, gorgeous prince. You are so beautiful, Roman."

"Please," you say again, and finally he takes pity on you, smooching the tip of your cock. Your hips twitch, and your hands clench into fists in his hair. Your breath catches, and it takes you several seconds to gather the focus to relax and loosen your grip. "S-sorry, sir. Please? More?"

"Good boy," Patton says. He holds eye contact as he licks a stripe up the underside of your cock, and you shudder, lifting one hand out of his hair to cover your mouth.

"I need more," you mumble, holding onto his hair and squirming, trying not to buck your hips.

"Put your hand back," Patton murmurs, lips brushing your belly, and you sigh, uncovering your mouth to gently take hold of his hair again.

"Yes, sir. Can you give me more, please?"

**Author's Note:**

> if someone wants to finish this, feel free to ask and i can add you as a co-author so you can post a 2nd chapter. requirements:
> 
> \- keep it in 2nd person  
> \- be 18+  
> \- don't include d*ddy kink
> 
> [writing tumblr](http://coralflower-ao3.tumblr.com)
> 
> [nsfw writing tumblr](http://coralflower-ao3-nsfw.tumblr.com)


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